Deborah Alma


3 chickens died this week,
they sat in the unexpected heat
panting, and in the morning
there was just one
white bird, bewildered,
stepping over their bodies,
following the dog.

In the news, a woman died,
and for days the rain,
so that the roses rotted in the bud;

and there seemed, in all this
time of high summer and scent,
of hollyhocks and hedge-clippings,
that I had had enough

and finding a black feather
floating on a pond,
was too much.